


show me your claws

by wellthatdepends



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Happy Ending, Light Angst, being in love is both the best and the worst, lila's working through a lot okay, relationships are awkward, she's new here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27188884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatdepends/pseuds/wellthatdepends
Summary: Diego likes her well enough. More than likes - he tells her he loves her, like, a disgusting amount. In public and everything.She’d hate it if she didn’t love him too.
Relationships: Diego Hargreeves/Lila Pitts
Comments: 16
Kudos: 72





	show me your claws

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title taken from 'Claws' by Washington.
> 
> \- This was supposed to be more explicit (involving knife play), but it turned into something far too soft and so I guess I'll have to do a follow up or something, hmm?
> 
> \- First foray into this ship, first foray into this fandom. It's been a while, folks, so I'm a bit rusty. I hope you enjoy. xx

She buys him a knife for their anniversary.

It’s stupid. She _feels_ stupid. So stupid, that when the shop assistant asks her if she wants to get it engraved she says _yes_. 

They never even agreed on their anniversary date anyway.

So she throws it in her gym bag and tries her best to forget about it.

(And she almost succeeds.

_Almost_.)

His siblings hate her.

Well, that’s not _entirely_ true.

It’s more of a sliding scale, ranging from hate to distrust and she thinks Klaus might be warming up to her, actually, after she accidentally tapped into his power and told some moaning, sadsack ghost to _fuck off_. 

(Klaus thinks it might have ascended out of sheer indignation.)

The others _mostly_ hate her. And have absolutely no qualms with expressing this, and expressing this to her face. It doesn’t matter that she apologised (albeit _badly_ ) and it doesn’t matter that she’s trying to make amends ( _she bought pizza, like, a week ago_ ). They are just _so_ hung up on the fact that she tried to kill them, like, _one_ time. And it was only because her Mum - scratch that - the woman who murdered her parents - basically brainwashed her.

(Apparently it’s easy to nod and offer to be a family when there’s a weapon in the mix. Unarmed and suddenly it’s all ‘ugh, Lila. _As if_.’”)

It doesn’t matter anyway. At the end of the day, Diego likes her well enough. More than likes - he tells her he loves her, like, a disgusting amount. In public and everything.

She’d hate it if she didn’t love him too.

( _Gross_.)

Some days, there’s a voice in her head that sounds so much like the Handler, just _mocking_ her ( _oh little one, do you really think this could possibly last?_ ). Some days she feels she’s actually _crazy_ ; crazy to think she could live a quiet, normal life with her dumb, sweet boyfriend. Some days she thinks maybe this is just a dream; and when she wakes up she’ll be back at the institution, but this time they’ll lock her up for _real_.

Lila’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

On Tuesdays she has therapy.

It’s Commission appointed - Herb says she might be able to get a job if she completes the sessions and signs a statement that absolves the Commission of any involvement in the murder of her parents.

(Apparently the Handler forging Carmichael's signature really raised some questions into their kill order process. It’s in the re-evaluations stages. Rumour is that they’ll be an official inquiry.)

But therapy makes her more mad; at the Handler, at Five, at _herself_. Self-loathing wasn’t a fun emotion to untap, but she deals with it the only way she knows how - at the gym Diego works at, beating the crap out of a punching bag.

(Hell, it’s better than crying. Which comes later.)

So on Tuesdays she has therapy and beats up inanimate objects and then cries in the shower back at the mansion. It’s a routine and she might not like it, but it’s _hers_.

Bonus points to Diego who has the decency to pretend like he doesn’t hear her sobbing. 

So yeah. She cries in the shower, then washes her hair with this shampoo he bought especially for her. And then cries some more, because life is hard and trying to unravel twenty plus years of lies and manipulation is harder and when her therapist asks ‘who is Lila?’, she feels like she’s _drowning_.

Shutting off the water, the fog begins to lift. She reminds herself that this is short term, soon she’ll be back working for the Commission and Diego will finally take Herb up on that job he keeps offering. He’ll move out of the mansion and she’ll move out of her tiny, depressing apartment, and they’ll build a home. Together.

It’s totally possible. Her therapist says so.

(She also says that some things can’t be planned and she has to accept that she’s not always going to be in control. That relationships are give and take and she can’t expect that Diego will just go along with whatever future she has outlined; that he has his own dreams and goals and she needs to support him, just as she expects him to support her.

Okay, lady, _whatever_. ~~She’ll think about it~~.)

Upon deciding that she was going to stay (there were a lot of false starts and hasty departures, on both their parts), she rents an apartment and gets a _job_. It’s so surreal and Vanya helps her with her resume since she’s basically the only one that ever had to apply for their job. 

Five, also, is surprisingly helpful.

(“I travelled to ancient Greece once.”

“Let’s put ‘ _Well versed in classic literature_ ’.”)

So naturally, she gets a job in a bookstore. She works the late shift and it isn’t too far from Diego’s gym. He likes to visit her on his breaks and pick her up when she finishes her shift and she’d hate it if she didn’t, like, love it. 

For a job, it’s not terrible. She works for this older French couple, Claude and Audrey, who don’t really care that her customer service skills are subpar, at best ( _ma cherie, if they want a particular title, direct them to Amazon_ ). She even gets a staff discount, of which the Hargreeves, as much as they supposedly hate her, are quick to take advantage of. 

“Where do you want these, Madame Audrey? Looks like your delivery guy just dumped and ran again.”

The thing about Diego - he never tells her when he’s stopping by. Just shows up, and sometimes he brings her a coffee or a pastry, and sometimes he brings her flowers from a stall down the street (usually on Wednesdays, after he pretends not to hear her crying). Sometimes, like today, when their shitty delivery drivers don’t do their jobs, he’ll lug some boxes inside; much to the joy and appreciation of Audrey and Claude.

(And Lila’s chagrin.)

“Oh Diego, mon coeur! You are a true knight in shining armour! Our Lila is a lucky woman, oui?”

“Oui,” Lila smiles through gritted teeth, “Oui, Madame Audrey. I am _very_ lucky.”

She leads him to the backroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

“You have to cut that out, you’re making me look bad.”

Diego starts to laugh until he realises she’s. dead. serious. 

“What’s this about, Lila? Because it can’t be because I moved a few boxes.”

Lila sighs, picking at her cuticles.

“They think you’re too good for me.” she mumbles, scuffing her red sneakers against the wooden floorboards.

“Seriously?” Diego chuckles, “That’s what’s got you pissed?”

“It’s not funny, idiot,” Lila scowls, “they have a niece our age that they won’t shut up about, and you, you walk in here bringing me gifts and doing all this unpaid labour, and they’re like _this_ close to setting up an introduction, because Lila be _damned_.”

“Is she hot?”

He’s teasing her now. She’s seeing red.

“I fucking hate you.”

“Hey, hey,” Diego grabs her by the arm as she makes to leave, “you want to know how many times Sal’s told me that I’m outkicking my coverage? How about how all the fighters at the gym want to be your ‘sparring’ partner?”

At this, Lila grins mischievously.

“Are they hot?”

Smirking, Diego pulls her closer so they’re toe-to-toe and he's practically _towering_ over her, brushing her hair behind her ear and pressing a kiss to the now exposed skin. 

“I fucking love you.”

At this, Lila groans, rolling her eyes dramatically.

“I fucking love you, too.”

Both the gym and the bookstore are closed on Sundays. She’ll usually work late Saturday then they’ll go to dinner or catch a movie or maybe they’ll go out for drinks and dancing and it’s all so disgustingly domestic, this _routine_ , that she wants to do this _always_. 

( _This_ and the in between; sharing family gossip between glasses of wine as they wait for a table, bickering about movie snacks as they queue for tickets, wrapped up in his arms to shield her from the cold in the nightclub line. 

It’s the waiting that never feels like waiting when she’s with him.)

She’ll spend the night at the mansion, sleep until 10 and wake up before him to make him pancakes.

(Well, for Diego _and_ his siblings. For as much as they hate her, they love her pancakes. Go figure.)

“Thanks babe,” Diego is awake, worn paperback shoved to the side as she passes him a tray containing a plate piled high and enough syrup to drown the whole lot. He’s made the bed _and_ he’s partially dressed; both redundant tasks, really, because their syrup infused kisses will _always_ lead to something more, and that something will _always_ result in sheets that need changing and a shower.

That they have to take _separately_. 

(Can’t let the day get away from them.)

He promised her something silly and touristy and it’s a beautiful day so they decided to go bike riding through the park. Stepping out of the shower, she slips back into his room, rummaging through her gym bag for clothes. He watches her appreciatively and she shakes her head.

“Get moving, lover boy,” she half-heartedly scowls, shaking out a pair of workout leggings, “daylight is-”

She’s cut off by a clattering sound, an object hitting the ground. 

And when she spots the source of the sound, she forgets to breathe.

It’s the bloody knife. 

Oh, she’d forgotten about that.

_Sort of_. 

There’s the knife, in its box, gift-wrapped, complete with a crushed bow. And there’s Diego, looking a cross between curious and confused. And then there’s her, trying to school her features into something other than complete and utter mortification.

“It’snotmine.”

Eyebrows furrow and Diego frowns.

“Whose is it then?”

“I stole it?”

“ _Lila_ …”

“I’m having an affair?”

With a huff, Diego grabs the offending object. He gives it a shake, tests its weight. Frowns at her again, fingers toying with the crumpled bow.

“Well, he’s not buying you jewellery, that’s for sure.”

“Who said it was a he?” She answers hotly, digging herself in deeper, noting the way his eyes widened just _so_.

“You sure you want to play this game, Lila?” Diego mutters quietly, stepping into her personal space, “After we’ve come so far?”

Okay. So he has a point. They don’t lie to each other, not anymore. It’s a rule. They get mad and they shut down and they run away, but they don’t lie. 

So with a resigned sigh, she takes a step back, sitting down on the bed and looking anywhere but at him.

“I bought it for you. For our anniversary. So...happy anniversary, I guess.”

Chancing a glance at him, she’s met with - 

Nothing. He’s not looking at her. He’s just staring at the box, holding it like it’s a fucking Fabergé egg. 

Clearing his throat, Diego finally meets her eye.

“So our anniversary is-”

“- the day we met at the asylum.”

Yeah. Now that she thinks about it, it’s kind of messed up to pick _that_ date.

Chuckling, Diego throws her a smile.

“You’re insane, you know that, right?”

“Shut up,” Lila grins, “you’re insane for loving me, idiot.”

Chuckling, Diego slides his fingers under the tape, peeling the edge away from the paper, torturously slow. Scoffing, she lies back. If he wants to play it like _that_ , she’s not going to give him the satisfaction of her impatience.

Before long, though, the rusting of paper ceases. She hears the slide of the lid of the box and then a soft thump as he lets it drop to the ground. 

The moment feels reminiscent of another decades ago; the way he joins her on the bed, stretching out beside her, shoulders touching. He only needs to lean over to kiss her, only needs to reach out to pull her on top of him. Instead he holds the knife above them, traces the edges, spins it between his fingers. Grazes his fingers over the inscription, the one that was an afterthought, that is her _only_ thought.

_Love, Lila._

“Don’t lose this one,” she whispers, reaching up, bumping his fingers with hers as they rest reverently over the words.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lila.” It’s a promise, it’s a vow.

It’s a pinky swear, tenfold.

Four months later, on the day that _he_ considers their anniversary ( _when you came back to me, Jesus, Lila, are you going to make me spell it out?_ ) he gives her a present of his own.

A ring.

(Ugh, it’s absolutely _sickening_ how much this man loves her.

So of course she says _yes_.)


End file.
